


Room 11

by The Fascinating Mr March (DeadNotStupid)



Category: American Horror Story: Hotel
Genre: Other, Readerfic, Rough Sex, Sexual Violence, Torture, dubcon, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5637331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadNotStupid/pseuds/The%20Fascinating%20Mr%20March
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP dubcon torture trash, because this fandom needs more of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Room 11

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I was sorry.

You must have been terribly upset, not to have seen him there. That’s the only explanation, you think, as the glossy tip of his shoe hooks around your ankle and topples you to the floor. Anything you had been thinking, anything you had been _running from_ , is now gone from your mind in an instant. Your feet go out from under you and you fall facefirst to the ground with a shout, halted in place. Your nails dig uselessly into the carpeting, trying to pull yourself away from the menacing shadow now looming behind you. Your gaze slides sideways as you felt the toe of that shoe, shiny, ever so shiny, presses down between your shoulderblades as gently as a kiss. You freeze.

“Wh-who are you--?” You ask through shallow breaths, eyes shooting around the room to look for an escape. Your voice is unfamiliar, huskier than usual, and you swallow _hard_. A little more weight is placed behind the shoe, an almost uncomfortable pressure on your spine. A whimper sits in your throat, a wrinkle in your brow.

The shadow ahead of you shifts, and you hear a chuckle from behind you. If the force of the man’s shoe had been uncomfortable, it’s nothing to the feeling of his knee. You had been pacified by the stillness of the moment, but now you fight. His weight is strong enough to keep you from rolling over, from reaching for his face, but you claw and drag at the carpet, reaching back to try and tear him away from you. He’s very still, and very quiet, and though you might flail and buck, he is impossible to move. Your mouth opens to scream and, in a flash, his hand is in the thin hairs at the back of your head, forcing your face into the bristle of the carpet.  
  
The whimper dies in your throat, seeping uselessly into the softness of the ground. You can barely breathe, your open mouth filled with nothing but the bristles of the rug. Maybe…  
  
You stop struggling.

It was never any good in the first place, you try to tell yourself. There’s no point in fighting, it’s better to save your energy. Perhaps you’ll get your chance, later, you lie to yourself. You cast your eyes down, palms flat against the floor. “P-lease..” you half-whisper, half-sob, almost swallowing the word as it’s muffled by the scratch against your lips.  
  
The fingers in your hair tighten then, pulling your head back, and you gasp for air, the rush of oxygen too much of a relief to think of what might come next. Every nerve lights up at his touch, prickles of electricity racing along your skin. You lick your lips, the sting of air against them telling you that you are bleeding, the speed of your breath turning from fear to asphyxiation, as you feel his fingers curl around your throat. The grip isn’t tight, but the steel behind it promises that it _could be_ , if this mysterious stranger were to show an ounce less noblesse oblige.

You resist the urge to look behind you, a cold sweat beginning to bead on your temples. “What-- are you doing?”

“Whatever I want, I imagine,” he purrs, a strange dialect on his tongue. A chill runs down your spine, at the sound, a dignity out of place in this violent man. It almost would have been better for him to shout, for his voice to be anything but a smooth croon in your ear. Instead, you find yourself pliable in his grasp, head tilting to the side to bare your throat to this.. _predator_. You feel his breath against your neck, and his lips, and your eyes flutter shut to allow yourself to imagine that, just maybe, you’re going to be alright.

You’re wrong, of course.

The hand around your throat tightens, and you gasp, the sound quickly turning to a choke. Your fingers scramble uselessly at his broad hands, desperate to pull them away. As the world begins to swim around you, your gaze slips sideways and you see him. He does not look angry or hateful. He is not a monster. He looks handsome. He looks hungry. His smile gleams in the dim light, the glitter of his grin the last thing you see as you fall into darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry it didn't get too explicitly sexy in this one. next time, I promise. I still have to get in the swing of this, we'll see how it all goes.


End file.
